


All of my fears went up in smoke, up in flames

by coffeeandchemicals



Series: Let us step into the darkness [2]
Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Ableism, Ableist Language, Aftermath of Violence, Angst, Blood and Violence, Character Study, Childhood Trauma, Homophobic Language, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Racism, Pining, Post-Season/Series 02, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Season/Series 01, Season/Series 02, Self-Harm, Touch-Starved, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-19
Updated: 2020-06-19
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:27:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24813034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeeandchemicals/pseuds/coffeeandchemicals
Summary: Steve dreamed - he dreamed a lot since that night at the Byers' when his world turned upside down. His dreams are filled violence and terror and death. But now Billy's showing up telling Steve to"Plant your feet. Draw a charge"- and Steve doesn't know what to do with the feelings this evokes.A companion piece toI was a spark, you were the wind I claimed. But you don't have to read that one to understand this one!
Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington
Series: Let us step into the darkness [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1794769
Comments: 11
Kudos: 66





	All of my fears went up in smoke, up in flames

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone! I decided to write a companion piece!
> 
> I think the tags pretty much cover all the the trigger warnings - there are some depictions of violence in dreams. Please let me know if I missed something. 
> 
> I hope you all are doing okay!

Steve dreamed. 

This wasn’t unusual. 

But he’d been having increasingly vivid dreams since that night he’d showed up at the Byers’ place to discover Nancy and Jonathan and blinking Christmas lights and a fucking flower-faced monster. And the loss of his belief in a world that _actually_ made any kind of sense. And. 

And after that night. Well, after that night, Steve’s dreams were filled with opening maws expelling fetid breaths and dark woods pierced with animalistic screams and the increasing sense of claustrophobia of a rodent about to be snapped up in a trap. He’d awake from these dreams gasping and sweating, arms flailing out for his bat (which was always propped up next to his bed – a nightly ritual he’d instigated to bring some control to the chaos of his dreams. His _life_ ). Only when his hand closed onto the handle of the bat could he slow his breathing down.

(Inhale-one-two-three-four-pause-one-two-three-four-exhale-one-two-three-four. Repeat. Repeat until he couldn’t hear his heart pounding in his ears. Repeat until his hands were only slightly trembling. Repeat until he was shivering from the sweat drying on his chest and neck, his body awash in goosebumps.)

Then he’d just sit with the bat settled on his crossed legs, fingers unconsciously moving up and down the handle catching occasionally on splinters, and stare into the darkness. If he was feeling especially melancholy, he imagined that the darkness was staring right back at him. Into him. And it’d see through his façade of ‘King Steve’ to the scared little boy who was afraid of letting anyone down. Afraid of never being good enough. 

Because he wasn’t. 

(His dad was good at reminding him of that.)

In the months that passed since that night, Steve’s dreams morphed and evolved like a living thing fighting for survival – fighting for dominance. Sometimes the Demogorgon killed him – biting and tearing into his flesh – leaving him lying on the floor of the dark hallway to watch as it killed first Jonathan and then Nancy. Both died screaming in fear and pain and rage. Then Steve would cough up blood and feel it pool around his head as he bled out and then he’d just… die. Sometimes he woke up then. Sometimes he just floated above his body to survey the scene – as if he were an impartial observer – but then the Demogorgon would look at him (as much as a thing without eyes could look at you) and Steve would feel that look like a punch to the stomach. And he knew that somehow the monster could see him and could kill him all over again – an endless cycle of fear, pain, blood, and death. And. 

And Steve would jerk awake – his body feeling the ghosts of dream-injuries – and he’d heave and gasp and pant. And cry. He’d give himself permission to allow the tears to slowly – _silently_ – roll down his cheeks, but he’d bite his lip and clench his jaw to stifle any sobs that would work themselves up from his chest. He knew that if he let those out, he would never stop crying. And then he’d prove his dad right – that he was a ‘stupid pansy weakling’. So. 

So, Steve would squeeze his fists tighter around the bat, clench his jaw harder, and silently seethe. He’d focus on the anger he felt towards the monster, towards Brenner, towards everyone who had a hand in creating this entire fucked up situation, towards his dad, towards his mother, towards himself. If this didn’t work – if the lump of sobs threatened to force its way out, battering through his defenses – Steve would drag his thumbs over the sharp points of the nails sticking out of the bat, relishing the intense scrapes of pain and the dark lines of blood that followed. This acute pain was a distraction from his chronic pain of terror and rage and frustration that flooded his dreams and crossed the barrier into real life. 

(And cross the barrier it did. Steve started seeing the Demogorgon everywhere – at home, at school, while driving, in his pool – always just out of the corner of his eye. Steve became a twitchy, jumpy wreck. He started at every noise, constantly looked over his shoulder, couldn’t sit still with all of the nervous energy saturating his body.)

Steve dreamed.

This was unusual given the amount of sleep he got each night. 

Steve had been under the assumption that as time moved forward – placing distance between him and that night – his dreams would quiet into something nebulous and grey, only occasionally filled with the sharp bolts of terror and pain and darkly desolate woods. But, unfortunately, the opposite occurred. Time did not heal all wounds. Time did not heal Steve. Instead, time worked its fingers into the cracks that appeared in Steve’s psyche, his façade, his self-esteem, causing them to fester. To rot. To spread. And. 

And his dreams had evolved, living thing that they were, since that Halloween when Nancy had said he was bullshit. That they were pretending to be in love - or at least she was pretending to love him – Steve hadn’t been pretending. Now, she’d show up in his dreams and laugh at him – a cold, cynical laugh that was so unlike the thoughtful Nancy he knew – and call him all the names he called himself – idiot, fake, fraud, worthless, moron, weak, the list went on. Then she’d twine around Jonathan, making jealousy roil and twist in Steve’s gut accompanied by such an intense feeling of longing for someone – anyone to offer some comfort – that it left him breathless. He wondered if Nancy hadn’t left him then maybe he’d be healing, or at least coping, or something other than existing in this deteriorating state. And this left him feeling cold and resentful and brittle. He wanted to lash out – at Nancy, at Jonathan, at Tommy, at Carol, at his parents – at everyone who was taking and taking and taking from him and couldn’t see that he was almost used up. He was almost done. Soon nothing would be left of Steve. Did they not see this? 

Steve dreamed.

This wasn’t unusual. 

If he was being honest with himself, he’d always had vivid dreams, but he’d always been so wrapped up in being ‘King Steve’ that he’d never paid much attention to them. Being ‘King Steve’ took up way too much of his energy. But maybe that was a good thing. Because he really didn’t want to remember his dreams. But. 

But ‘King Steve’ was dead. Thanks to Billy Hargrove. ( _The king is dead, long live the king_.) And, on most days, Steve could live with that – he didn’t like being ‘King Steve’. ‘King Steve’ was an asshole and Steve didn’t want to be one. He wanted to do better. Be better. But. 

But now Billy was making his presence known – _felt_ – in Steve’s dreams. Slowly, at first, since meeting him properly at Halloween – when he took away Steve’s title. When Billy’s existence, alone, used up all the oxygen in the room. Steve didn’t know how much energy it took Billy to maintain his persona but watching him just made Steve tired. But he couldn’t look away; Billy pulled every eye in the room – created a captive audience waiting with bated breath to see what he’d do next. (Take King Steve’s title, that’s what.) And, Steve supposed, this was why Billy was becoming a fixture in his prevalent nightmares. And.

And, at first, Billy appeared on the periphery – a casual spectator on the sidelines. He’d show up to witness Barb’s death, lounging on a chair by the pool, arms crossed behind his head, and a slight smirk playing on his lips. He’d be leaning against a tree, smoking, watching Steve run, run, run away from the Demogorgon. He’d be sitting on the Byers’ couch, elbows propped on his knees, chin in his hands, observing when Jonathan, then Nancy, and, finally, Steve died. In his dreams, Steve didn’t question Billy’s presence – things made sense in dreams even if they made absolutely no sense once you woke up. And. 

And Steve would jerk awake – still heaving, still gasping, still panting, still flailing. And he’d still grab his bat and prop it across his knees and breathe (one-two-three-four). He’d laugh a bit that Billy’s overwhelming personality was making its way into his dreams – especially because Steve didn’t think about him much when he was awake. 

(Except Steve’s eyes were always drawn to Billy whenever he was in proximity – tracking his movements like a predator hunts prey or, maybe, like prey warily eyeing a predator. Steve would notice Billy’s mouth – his tongue doing obscene things, his lips drawing up in malicious smiles, his teeth baring in aggression. Steve would notice Billy’s face had a divide – a barrier – his mouth, loud and brash, pulled attention towards it, creating a front, a _façade_. But Billy’s eyes… his eyes were cold, flat, sad, scared, angry – they never matched the message his mouth was spouting. Steve wondered if Billy was aware of this disconnect. Steve wondered if anyone else saw it. Steve wondered, occasionally, secretly, silently, what caused Billy to be that way.)

His dreams evolved again after that day. That day when Billy was crowding him, forcing himself into Steve’s space, on the court. Steve could feel the heat from Billy’s body – the energy radiating outwards as if Billy’s skin couldn’t contain all of his essence. And.

And then. 

And then Billy.

And then Billy is hovering over him, getting right up into his face, hauling him closer with an unforgiving hold – fingers digging into the small bones of Steve’s hand.

“You were moving your feet. Plant them next time. Draw a charge.”

And then Billy shoves him away. Like Steve is nothing. 

(Don’t worry. Steve is well aware that he is nothing. Thanks to Nancy. Thanks to his dad. Of course, he’d be nothing to the new king. Why would he expect something different?)

Except. In the showers, Billy looks at him. A small wry grin barely touching the corners of his mouth accompanied by heavy-lidded eyes. It’s the first time both halves of Billy’s face have aligned, and Steve feels the expression hit him low in his gut – resulting in anger, frustration, and… want? Want. That’s new. Steve doesn’t know what he wants from Billy – to be him, be friends with him, beat the shit out of him, something else? But. 

But Steve’s just going to push that feeling away, shove it down. Pretend it doesn’t exist. (He’s gotten good at that.) Steve’s actively trying to ignore Tommy’s blather, trying to turn it into white noise, until Tommy mentions Jonathan and Nancy, confirming Steve’s suspicions like a blow to the chest, forcing the air from his lungs. And.

And maybe Billy sees this, because he’s moving into Steve’s space, like he’s trying to distract Steve.

“Don’t take it too hard, man. Pretty boy like you has got nothing to worry about.”

Ha. Billy doesn’t know anything – Steve has so much to worry about. _So much_. And this, apparently, now includes Billy, Billy’s intense magnetism, and –

Wait. 

Wait – did Billy call him pretty? 

Yes. Billy called him ‘pretty boy’. And. 

And that hits Steve right in his stomach and spreads outwards. Downwards. And.

And Steve’s just going to ignore that. 

Billy’s still talking though. He’s still staring at Steve, unblinking – his eyes scream at Steve about sex, lust, late nights, bodies intertwined, the slow drag of fingertips over muscles, _“pretty boy”_ being growled into his ear so close that he can feel the touch of Billy’s lips –

Wait. What?

Stop. 

_Stop_. 

But Billy’s already leaving before Steve can react, slapping Steve on the shoulder as he saunters out. And. 

Steve dreamed.

This wasn’t unusual. 

But now Billy was in his dreams as an active participant. He’d be standing behind Steve in the Byers’ hallway, whispering in Steve’s ear – _Plant your feet. Draw a charge_ – exuding confidence and control. And Steve would lean into this – lean into him – breathe in the cigarette smoke and cologne and essence of Billy. And.

And Steve would plant his feet. He’d draw the charge. He’d swing his bat. 

Sometimes it would connect, colliding solidly with the Demogorgon’s head, force reverberating up Steve’s arms. Then Steve would yank the bat free and keep swinging – an endless cycle of hitting, forcing the bat free from the monster’s flesh, and blood spraying, coating the walls, the floor, Steve. And Steve would be panting, Billy would be laughing – yelling _King Steve, there he is_ – and. 

Sometimes he would swing his bat and it wouldn’t connect with soft tissue, wouldn’t result in the Demogorgon’s screams of pain, wouldn’t make Steve’s arms go numb. And then Steve would die. He’d see the Demogorgon go after Nancy and Jonathan. He’d feel the life flowing out of him with every slow beat of his heart. And Billy would be there, crouched over him, saying _better luck next time, it’s just not your week, King Steve_. Then Billy would stand up, turn, and amble away – as if he had nothing to fear. And Steve would die alone, in the dark, with terror and sorrow welling up from his stomach, freezing the sobs building in his throat. And. 

And Steve would jerk awake. Like always. Panting, heaving, gasping, laughing, crying. Hysterical mania bubbling just below the surface making his fingers shake as he tried to grab his bat. Once the bat was in its usual position – propped across his crossed legs, the tips of nails digging into the tender flesh of his inner thighs – Steve would try to light a cigarette. He didn’t smoke much anymore, only when he was really stressed, on edge, vibrating with uncontained fear (which often happened in the middle of the night). The act itself – tapping a cigarette out of the pack, bringing it to his lips, striking the lighter, watching the flame flicker as he brought it up to the cigarette tip, lighting it, inhaling the hot smoke, seeing the cherry glowing in the dark – was soothing, always the same sequence of events. Predictable. Methodic. Even if it did take Steve ten times to get the stupid thing lit. 

(Not that Steve was ready to admit it himself, but his smoking habit was on an upswing. If Steve wanted a _safe_ reason for this, he could blame the comforting, methodical act of lighting the cigarette, accompanied by that wonderful hit of nicotine. But. But in the more secret parts of Steve’s brain, the _actual_ reason was the strong scent-memory – Billy whispering, “Plant your feet,” lips brushing the shell of Steve’s ear, the strong solid wave of heat that seemed to emanate from Billy’s body – that Steve had started linking to that smell. Billy’s presence in his nightmares made him feel safer, stronger, less like he was going to fall to pieces.)

Steve would never tell Billy Hargrove that he was helping Steve fight nightmares. 

Billy would probably kill him.

Ha. Steve’s faced scarier things than Billy. Like Demogorgons. And, now, apparently, Demodogs. Oh joy. So. 

So, Steve chose to bury the complex, conflicted feelings he was beginning to associate with Billy. Billy in his dreams was drastically different than Billy in real life, but Steve’s body reacted to both in the same way – a punch to the stomach that took his breath away, shivers that moved up his spine, a tightness in his chest – all because Billy was making him feel safe in his dreams. 

Steve wasn’t even with Nancy anymore and the kids – Dustin – had decided to adopt him like some hapless older brother. And, well, Steve was lonely enough that he’d just accepted it. It was nice to feel needed. Nice to feel wanted. Nice to feel something other than pain, terror, nausea. Except those Demodogs were causing some anxiety, some fear. 

How the fuck did he get pulled into all this shit again?

Steve didn’t know, but all of a sudden, he’s in the junkyard with fog rolling in. Just waiting in a broken down, rusted-to-hell bus. Waiting. _Waiting_. Where was this demon dog – Demodog – fucking stupid name. He’s flicking his lighter, trying to keep his breathing under control. Trying to maintain some sort of calm in front of these kids. Trying to man up, not be a ‘stupid pansy weakling’. Trying to…

Fuck it.

He tosses his lighter to Dustin, saying, “Just get ready.” And steps out of the bus, swinging the bat in a loose grip. And.

And.

Fuck.

Did he fall asleep?

Did his nightmares morph into this? Sure, he’s not at the Byers’ house, but the atmosphere is exactly the same. He walks towards the animal crouched in the fog. Fear prickles up his spine, his breaths come in quick gasps, and… he’s going to die. The Demodog opens its flower-faced maw. He’s going to die. Is this a dream? Will he jerk awake after he dies? Steve hears Lucas shouting, hears Dustin yelling, hears the blood pounding in his ears. It’s not a dream. Fuck. He’s going to die. And.

And then Steve hears something he _knows_ isn’t there – Billy’s voice, filled with the same intensity as that day on the court – “Draw a charge. Plant your feet, pretty boy, draw a charge” – and Steve inhales deeply, trying to slow his racing thoughts. And then he swings, rolls, runs, gets back to the bus. And. 

And Steve’s putting himself between that fucking Demodog and the kids, shouting, “You want some? Come get this!” But his heart is thudding – it’s going to burst – his limbs are shaking – he can barely stand, barely hold onto the bat. Barely breathe. But he’s not going to be responsible for the deaths of three kids. (Steve doesn’t think he’d be able to live with himself if he somehow survived and they didn’t.) So. 

So, Steve stands his ground, looking up into that gaping orifice, hoping that he can hold it off long enough for the kids to run. For anyone to come help them. And.

And the Demodogs just leave.

Everything is a blur. Steve talks to the kids. Steve talks to Nancy – absolves her of her betrayal even though he feels like his heart is shattering (but he can still hear Billy saying, “Plant your feet” and it makes Steve steadier). Steve thinks that maybe, just maybe, he might just be good enough for the kids, good enough to keep them safe. 

(Even if he isn’t good enough for Nancy or his dad.)

But. 

But Billy.

But Billy ruins it.

Steve’s standing outside, watching Billy get out of his car, cigarette held loosely between two fingers, smoke curling out his mouth. 

“Am I dreaming, or is that you, Harrington?”

Fuck.

“Yeah, it’s me. Don’t cream your pants.”

Fuck. Why did he say that? Why did Steve’s brain even go there? Billy’s still talking, cigarette hanging out of the corner of his mouth, end glowing orange in the dark. Steve’s barely listening to him – his brain is trying to figure out why he jumped right to sex when Billy showed up. (Maybe it’s because Billy’s shirt is undone to his crotch. Fuck. Why is Steve even looking at Billy’s crotch? And wow, those jeans don’t hide anything. Stop looking. Stop.) And. 

And wait. What is Billy insinuating? (And what is his tongue doing?) 

And then Billy shoves him, “I told you to plant your feet,” and delivers a solid kick right to Steve’s gut, leaving Steve lying, gasping, groaning on the ground, as Billy strides towards the house and Max. Fuck. Steve needs to protect Max from her psycho stepbrother. Or, rather, Steve needs to protect Lucas from him. Billy clearly has some anger issues. Might be a racist. Steve isn’t sure. But. 

But Steve is so sick of fighting things that keep killing him. And his heart is breaking just a bit (a lot) that Billy in real life is such an _asshole_ when Billy in his dreams actually helps him stand his ground. So, Steve just starts swinging – fists trying to communicate the level of betrayal he’s feeling – even though he knows Billy is just acting like Billy. But Steve’s built Billy up in his head – placed him on a pedestal – and Billy in real life is letting him down. And this makes Steve so fucking angry and so fucking sad. And.

And then Billy hits him with a plate and Steve doesn’t remember much of the rest of the night. There are tunnels, screaming kids, Demodogs rampaging, and Steve’s head is just aching. When he looks in the mirror later on, all he can see is a tapestry of blue and purple, swelling, mottling, morphing his flesh. Fuck. It hurts. He can barely see his eyes are so swollen. He needs to sleep for a week. He can’t. And.

And he sees Billy the next day. Billy’s face is a cornucopia of colours and swelling and cuts – Steve didn’t think he’d gotten that many hits in. Steve sees Billy at practice, stiffly changing clothes, even though the coach will bench them both. If Steve thought Billy’s face was colourful, his ribs are something else – Steve’s sure he didn’t hit Billy’s ribs at all. And, wait, is that a boot print? Steve shudders and wonders if _this_ is what causes the divide in Billy’s face. If the man behind the boot print is the reason that Billy’s eyes are so flat and sad and scared. If the man behind the boot print is the reason that Billy needs to take all the oxygen in every room he’s in. If the man behind the boot print is the reason that Billy has to project this bright, burning persona to keep people at bay without them suspecting this is the case. Steve wonders if this is the reason that Billy has to play ‘Billy Hargrove’ – as if his life is a stage and he’s just a character. Just an act. Steve wonders what is beneath Billy’s act – if the darkness stared into him, would it also see a scared little boy?

(When Steve allows himself to ruminate on Billy, during practice, in the days and weeks that followed, Steve speculates that the man behind the boot print is Billy’s dad. Because, well, Steve knows something about disappointing dads. But Steve’s never had to deal with his dad’s anger becoming physical – Steve is taller than his dad and this, maybe, counts for something – and his dad’s weapons of choice have always been snide, vicious comments that worm their way into Steve’s brain, get under Steve’s skin, plant themselves in Steve’s heart. Steve’s dad has always been short on compliments and long on criticisms and Steve’s gotten really good at reading his dad’s face to know what to expect – to read that tight, pinched mouth, those flaring nostrils, and the deepening furrow between his dad’s eyebrows, and just know that he’s going to berate Steve for something. Steve knows this expression and knows what to expect but it still hurts. Every. Single. Time. So, Steve wonders if Billy deals with something similar, but something so much worse at the same time.)

Steve dreamed.

This wasn’t unusual. 

And his dreams had evolved again, fighting for survival, branching out. 

Steve would still dream of the Demogorgon and Nancy and Jonathan at the Byers’, that endless cycle of pain and terror. Sometimes Billy would show up, his blue eyes following Steve’s progress and inevitable demise. Sometimes Billy wouldn’t show up and Steve would have to face dying alone. Steve couldn’t decide which was worse. 

Steve would dream of being lost in dark tunnels, chased by Demodogs, and trying to save the kids. The kids always died, no matter what Steve did. Sometimes Steve would die, sometimes he wouldn’t. Billy would be there, in the tunnels, laughing viciously as Steve tried to find a way out. Sometimes Steve would scream at Billy to just help him. To just help him save the kids. Get the kids out. Anything. But Billy wouldn’t deign to respond. 

Steve would dream of that second night at the Byers’ when Billy beat the shit out him. Billy would be on top of him, fists connecting with his cheekbones, his nose, his temples, his jaw. And all Steve would feel is pain and rage. Sometimes Billy would be laughing – hysterical – and Max wouldn’t be there to stop him. Steve would feel himself lose consciousness and feel himself die. Sometimes Billy would be crying, tears making tracks through the blood on his cheeks. But he’d still keep hitting Steve, as if his life depended on it. Steve would always die.

And Steve would jerk awake – his body feeling the ghosts of dream-injuries – and he’d heave and gasp and pant. He’d grab his bat and smoke a cigarette and hate Billy, just a little bit. He’d ponder Billy’s presence in his dreams as he’d absently run his fingers up and down the nails sticking out of the bat, occasionally stopping to pierce the tip of one into the soft pad of his thumb. This was not a good coping technique. Steve was just so tired – so hollowed out. But.

But sometimes his dreams wouldn’t be nightmares. These made Steve ache for something, something he couldn’t even explain, something he didn’t know how to verbalize or picture. These dreams would start at the Byers’ place, but there would be no Nancy, no Jonathan, no Demogorgon, no screaming of any kind. Instead, Steve would be sitting on the porch, elbows on knees, looking at the sky. He wouldn’t be afraid. There wouldn’t be any sense of panic creeping up his neck or sweat breaking out on his palms or knots growing in his stomach indicating that terror is soon to come. No, Steve would just sit and be calm. And Billy would drive up, the Camaro’s engine rumbling and music blaring through the open windows. Steve would see Billy’s grin, would see a sense of looseness, relaxation, that spreads through Billy’s limbs as he ambles towards Steve. Then Billy would sit down next to him and tap out two cigarettes, passing one to Steve. Steve would light Billy’s then his and they’d sit in silence and smoke. Sometimes Billy would say, “Good job, pretty boy, you planted your feet,” and then slap Steve on the shoulder. Sometimes Billy would say nothing, just look at Steve, unblinking, reminiscent of that time in the locker room showers, and huff out smoke in a small laugh. Sometimes Billy would reach out to gently drag his fingertip along the scar on Steve’s face, the one caused by the plate, and Steve would want so badly to turn his face into Billy’s hand. And. 

And Steve would jerk awake – his body feeling the ghost of Billy’s touch – and he’d heave and gasp and pant. _And want_. (As evidenced by waking up with his dick hard and aching.) Then Steve would laugh derisively at himself for wanting someone – _a boy_ – who’d beaten the shit out of him and probably would have killed him. Steve couldn’t decide what was worse – wanting someone who hated him or wanting a boy. And.

And Steve watched Billy. He watched Billy leaning on the Camaro, smoking before school – sometimes Steve saw Billy’s hands shaking as he brought the cigarette to his mouth – like Billy was trying to psych himself up to become ‘Billy Hargrove’. He watched Billy in the hallways, laughing loudly at something Tommy said, his head thrown back – how could anyone think that was a real laugh? – arm wrapped loosely over Tommy’s shoulder (Steve felt a small curl of jealousy whenever he saw this and wondered if Billy’s arm felt as safe as it looked). He watched Billy in practice, running full-out, moving with intense aggression as if he was trying to tire himself out before going home – before he would have to face his dad. But. 

But Billy would almost, inevitably, show up to school the next day, snarling, snapping, like an animal in pain. And Steve would know that it hadn’t worked. Steve would know that Billy had planted his feet and drawn a charge even though Billy knew – _he knew_ – that his dad would take any sign of defiance as a challenge. And Steve would see Billy limping or moving stiffly or holding his arm awkwardly and know that Billy’s dad had hurt him again – even if there was no evidence on Billy’s face. And.

And Steve kept watching Billy over the next few months. Steve made his interactions with Billy casual, light, non-threatening. They never spoke about that night in November, but Steve wasn’t surprised, Billy had to keep up his act, had to keep playing ‘Billy Hargrove’. But. 

But Steve could see it was wearing Billy down and, maybe, Billy didn’t want to be ‘Billy Hargrove’ anymore – maybe he wanted to do better. Be better. So. 

So, Steve decided to take a risk. He decided to plant his feet. And.

“You okay, man?” Steve hears these words leave his mouth before he’d consciously decided to say them. He’s standing in front of Billy. It’s a Wednesday in May. It’s after school. Students are chatting, gathering their books, laughing. And Steve’s standing in front of Billy next to Billy’s locker. And. 

And Billy looks surprised, then angry, then scared, then so young. So young. 

“Billy?” Steve says, his voice low, gentle, timid. He wonders if Billy needs someone to tell him to plant his feet, to draw a charge. If Billy needs someone like Billy in Steve’s dreams – not his nightmares – someone who’s standing just behind him, giving him strength, supporting him. 

Billy’s just staring at Steve and Steve’s afraid that maybe, just maybe, he’s been reading Billy wrong this whole time. Maybe Steve had been projecting his own fears and insecurities on Billy. Maybe there’s no ‘Billy Hargrove’. Maybe it’s just Billy. But. 

But Steve can see the muscles working in Billy’s jaw and he recognizes this because he’s seen it so often on his own face. Billy’s trying to force something down – maybe tears, maybe words, maybe something else. So.

So, Steve says again, “Billy?” He makes Billy’s name into a tentative question by adding a small upswing on the last syllable. He’s trying to be non-threatening. Open. And. 

And Steve can see Billy’s eyes flitting. Is he looking for escape? Is he starting to panic? And, well, Steve can understand panic. He says more firmly, trying to ground him, “Billy.” He can see Billy twitching, almost like he’s getting ready to bolt. And Steve needs to stop him, Billy can’t leave. So.

So, Steve slowly, carefully reaches out, to touch Billy – hold him in place. “Billy,” he says again. But Billy still looks scared, raw, brittle, and Steve wonders again, if he’s projecting, if Billy doesn’t want to be touched at all – because who would want to be touched after being beat up by their dad? And Steve swallows, accepting that Billy in real life is not the same as Billy in his dreams. And he lowers his arm and turns away, stomach filling with knots. He’s going to be sick. 

“Wait,” Billy’s voice is low, gravelly, tight – like he used up all of his air in that one word. And Steve looks over his shoulder at him. Billy’s head is dropping, and he mutters, “Please.” Billy looks like he’s deflating – the essence of Billy leaving its form. 

Steve turns around and steps closer.

Billy whispers again, “Please.”

Steve thinks that maybe he could be for Billy what Billy’s unknowingly been for him. So, he puts his hand on Billy’s shoulder and can feel Billy just leaning into it. And Steve thinks that maybe Billy needs someone to hold him up – in more ways than one – so, he says, “I got you.” And then squeezing his hand tighter, just because he knows how good it feels to have some sort of human contact, Steve adds, “It’s okay.” And. 

And Billy doesn’t say anything, just leans, his throat works, like he’s swallowing sobs – and Steve can relate to that – he’s been doing that for over a year now. But, somewhere along the way, Billy showed up and made it a little easier for Steve to stop forcing those sobs down. He made it a little easier for Steve to plant his feet. He made it a little easier for Steve to stand his ground – in his dreams and in real life. Billy made it a little easier for Steve to breathe. And. 

And Steve hopes he can help Billy in the same way. “Just breathe.” And.

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from [Step into the Darkness](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EeuICRNMqRg) by Said the Whale.
> 
> Beta'd by the wonderful [red_plaid_on_red_plaid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/red_plaid_on_red_plaid)
> 
> Any feedback is greatly appreciated!


End file.
